Prisoner
by Narcissist-Cissy
Summary: A short story about a horrible fate for a horrible person who maybe neededs another chance


Rodmilla's blood froze inside her veins, even though the summertime heat  
oppressed the carriage. She sat properly, like she was born to do, but  
despite this superficial calm, unpleasant thoughts pulsed through her  
mind which made her nerves stand on end. She wondered what on earth  
made her decide to do this, but she knew that no amount of wishing could  
undo her choice. An overpowering uneasiness cretp into her stomach.  
She could barely respire without feeling it. She remained quiet for  
fear that the queasiness would make her ruin her beautiful crimson  
dress.

The jerky movements eventually became unbearable. Rodmilla's abdoment  
fomented and churned. Saliva flooded her mouth. Her head felt light,  
and it swayed from side to side while the carriage progressed. She  
needed air.

"Driver, halt!" she shouted. Her insides nearly ejected from her mouth  
as the coach came to an abrupt stop. The door opened, allowing sunlight  
and a weak breeze to circulate within the carriage. Rodmilla hurried  
out, ignoring the offered hand of the driver. She nearly stumbled onto  
the ground when she jumped in her delicate shoes. Skulking behind the  
car, she held her belly tight as she gasped. Her stomach heaved and  
convulsed in preparation for what seemed inevitable. She inhaled deeply  
and exhaled shallow breaths. More than anything, she wanted to escape;  
she wanted to run away so badly that her legs began to shake with the  
impulse. She lingered where she was, clutching her belly like a newborn  
child.

The annoyed tone of a creepy, iniquitous voice broke the stillness of  
the scene. "What is wrong?"

It was the duke of the province, Pierre du Roche. He sat casually upon  
his mount, a silvery gray mare of excellent quality. The bright, glossy  
coat contrasted the black outfit of its rider. The rigid length of a  
crop dangled against the mare's withers.

Du Roche's beady eyes rolled into the direction of the carriage. The  
driver's voice trembled, "I- I think she's sick, your Grace."

"Well, then, if the lady is ill we must hurry her home," du Roche  
insisted. He walked his horse over to his ailing wife. He looked down  
at her. A tight, self-satisfied grin appeared on his lips. His delight  
was so apparent that it temporarily made the scar on his left cheek  
disappear, but it returned when his smile faded.

"We must make haste my lady," he coldly told her. "It will be dark soon,  
and we must make it back to the castle before the wolves come to hunt."

Rodmilla wondered if she would be better off spending the night with the  
furry animals rather than the one staring down at her. Still, she could  
not argue; part of the agreement stipulated that she had to play the  
perfect wife. She swallowed hard and slowly climbed back into the  
carriage. It started as suddenly as it had stopped. Rodmilla's innards  
quivered a little, but it eventually subsided. Rodmilla kept her head  
in her hands for the duration of a trip, as if she were a sinner begging  
forgiveness at confession.

The carriage stopped, and the door opened. Instead of finding sunlight,  
darkness surrounded the manor. Despite this, the outline of the  
medieval horror known as du Roche's castle was still obvious. It was  
the very image of Satan's own house- decaying, decadent, and putrid as a  
corpse. The sickly smell, when it reached Rodmilla's nose, made her  
feel nauseous again. The only thing which kept her from actually doing  
anything this time was the lack of items to regurgitate.

Rodmilla gathered her flowing skirts and gracefully stepped from the  
coach, assisted by the burly driver. She stood in the courtyard. A  
sense of foreboding overwhelmed her when she came to the realization  
that this was her home and prison, and that dreadful man was her husband  
and master, till death do they part. She glanced around, trying to  
figure out her general direction inside her new residence. Du Roche  
watched calmly as his wife slowly made her way around the castle. He  
was amply pleased they had arrived in time for dinner. He took special  
precautions to make this meal particularly to Rodmilla's taste. That  
way, he knew, she would be more agreeable when it came time for her to  
fulfill her end of the bargain.

When the newlywed aristocrats entered the dining room, it was already  
decorated with the best dinnerware. It was obviously a dinner for two,  
but nevertheless, the arrangement was a showcase of affluence.  
Platters, cups, knives, spoons, and forks were made of the finest  
silver. Silken napkins rested beside the empty plates. This  
extravagant display would have impressed the bride had she chosen a  
different groom. Du Roche situated himself at the head of the table and  
motioned for Rodmilla to sit at the other end. The chairs were very  
dark, but the craftsmanship made it seem as if they were carved from  
human bones. Hollow skulls stared at Rodmilla with their empty eyes.  
It was disgusting. Inside, she felt a little afraid at du Roche's very  
real enthusiasm for the macabre. She stood at the chair, clearly  
miserable beneath her placid expression.

"Sit," du Roche invited her. He said it very politely, but in spite of  
that, it sounded like a veiled threat.

"Sit? Here?" Rodmilla asked, the taint of disdain showing on her face.

"Yes," du Roche answered, in a way that was obviously an effort to be  
charming. He marveled at how she had grown more stubborn with such  
powerful temptation. It puzzled him how a person who had so much and  
had lost it could just turn her nose up at her chance to have  
everything.

"I prefer to stand," said his bride, ever more haughtily than in the  
past.

"Sit down," he sternly commanded her. Although he did not yell at her,  
his voice became more sinister, as if he were threatening her with the  
very pitch. But his eyes, his wolfish eyes, glared at her across the  
long table. He did not seem like any man she had ever met. There was  
an element about him that suggested that something was- wrong- with  
him. Rodmilla decided that this was not the time to pick an argument.  
Half starving and in a strange place, she was clearly at a disadvantage.

She sat mechanically in her chair. She waited for the servants to bring  
the entree. She was definitely hungry, though. She had not eaten since  
she left her humble existence at the royal palace. Now, her body  
demanded what her mind would not allow.

Rodmilla's stomach almost screamed in excitement when she saw a servant  
bring in a huge platter of meat. Upon closer inspection, she caught the  
form of two golden-brown pheasants with steam arising from them like  
fog. Immediately after this appetizing appearance, others followed.  
Three more servants arrived, each carrying her own dish. One servant  
carried a bowl full of roasted truffels. Another carried sauteed  
carrots. The last bore bread in a basket. The scents and visions of  
this food made Rodmilla salivate, but she restrained herself from  
showing that most primal of instincts. She swalled her spit, and her  
hunger, as she faced du Roche at the other end of the table. She licked  
her lips, and she tasted her lipstick. It was almost good enough to  
eat, but not nearly as good as roast pheasant and sauteed truffles. The  
servants began to distribute the cuisine to each person sitting at the  
table, oddly putting food onto Rodmilla's plate before placing any on du  
Roche's. She watched them carefully, her hungry mouth quivering. She  
wanted to wolf down every bit of food given to her, but she resisted.  
Despite her undeniable famish, Rodmilla refrained from touching the  
food, even the silverware. She just sat at the table, staring into  
empty space.

Her stomach tightened when du Roche attempted conversation. "Come now,  
my lady, you must be voracious after the fast you have endured," he  
said, his voice slithered towards her like it was made of flesh.

Rodmilla did not even look at his face. She averted her eyes away from  
him. She focused instead on the tasty morsels in front of her. But she  
only looked. She refused to give that horrid man the satisfaction.

"I am not very hungry at all," she said.

"Really now, my lady, then there must be a tiger sitting under the  
table," he jested, but it was not amusing to her.

"How very witty, your Grace, but I do not wish to eat anything."

"Very well. If the lady does not wish to eat, she does not have to do  
so until she is ready."

With that, he snapped his bony fingers. The servants instantly removed  
her dishes while allowing du Roche's to remain. To Rodmilla's surprise,  
he did not eat like the filthy swine he was. His manners were quite  
polished, considering his background and acquaintances. He ate all his  
food like a ravenous vulture at a pile of carrion. He cut, forked, and  
chewed his food with a kind of viciousness she had only seen in dogs,  
although on the surface he ate like a human being. Du Roche quickly  
finished his meal, and hte dirty dishes were promptly removed. Du Roche  
yawned, and he semi-casually began to speak again.

"It has been a long day. I hope you will sleep more readily than you  
eat. Come. Let us prepare for bed."

Rodmilla got out of her seat and hurried out of the dining hall. Du  
Roche grabbed a candlestick and proceeded behind her. He followed her  
in a leering, predatory way that made her feel uneasy, like he was  
hunting her as he would a deer in the forest. She felt suddenly  
helpless. She could feel his hot, stinking breath upon her as he closed  
the distance between them. The light provided some reassurance, but not  
enough for her not to be wary. She ambulated slowly, her head always  
turning behind her momentarily to make sure du Roche did not transform  
into some frightful beast. Yet, every time she paused to take this  
precaution, du Roche would be standing there, to all appearances  
congenial, and he would take that skeletal hand of his and gently usher  
her forward into the darkness ahead.

They climbed twisting stairs, turned down winding halls, and walked  
through eternal passageways before they reached the bedroom. It was  
also dark, but as the candlelight spread gradually throughout the room,  
Rodmilla saw an elegantly, if simply, decorated room. The centerpiece  
was a large bed with long, sweeping canopies and a thick blanket. She  
wished du Roche would give her the candlestick so she could find her way  
into the berth and let Morpheus take her away. Instead, he guided her  
to their resting place. He lighted another candlestick, but this one he  
left in the room.

"Now darling," he smirked, "I must take care of some final details  
before I too retire. But, you must promise me you won't go to sleep  
until I return, or you may miss something quite special."

He tried to stroke Rodmilla's face with his fingers, but she jerked away  
from him as a cold glare emited from her eyes. He did not look hurt by  
the gesture. An excited smile spread across his face. He held the look  
as he walked out of the bedroom. He stalked back into the dining hall.  
A few servants scattered about, and he called to one of them.

"You," he said, pointing to the servant farthest from him. It was a  
young man, no older than twenty. "You," du Roche repeated, "Get me the  
leg of that pheasant you prepared this evening."

The boy nodded, and he hurried back with the morsel in hand. Du Roche  
coldly snatched it from the boy and headed back to the bedroom.  
Rodmilla was still awake, but now she reclined on the bed in her  
nightgown. Du Roche smiled at her mischievously. Although she was no  
spring chicken, she was still very beautiful. She had an air about her  
that only an older woman would have. He could not really explain it,  
but it was untamed and exciting. He had a mare like her once. A very  
spirited animal, it often kicked, bucked, and bit at him. However, she  
was a terrific ride and wonderful on the hunt; she was fearless,  
confident, and wise about the wilderness. But, one time that beautiful  
horse made the mistake of throwing him while he was on the chase. It  
never happened again after a thorough breaking. He felt fortunate to  
have such an attractive an vivacious companion again. He wondered if  
breaking people was as pleasurable as breaking horses.

"I've got something for you," he teased, waving the pheasant leg at  
her. With a grimace, he watched her eyes follow the limb closer than a  
cat does a mouse.

"Do you want it?" he taunted. Rodmilla remained silent. "Come on,  
darling," he continued, "Realize now that I can be generous. All you  
have to do is ask, and you shall receive."

Rodmilla was transparently annoyed. She gave him a gaze of utter  
contempt and scorn, but her words came out differently, "Please, will  
you give it to me?"

"Why of course, my lady," du Roche responded, that broad smile still  
adhered to his face. He dangled the meat in front of her, and she tried  
to grab it, but he deftly maneuvered it out of her reach. She repeated  
the action, but got the same results. Du Roche placed the leg next to  
her hungry mouth. He slid it across her labrum in a most beckoning  
manner. She parted her lips and bit off a huge chunk of the meat. She  
seemed to swallow the dainty whole, not even bothering to chew or taste  
it. He only allowed her to take this single morsel. He withdrew the  
leg from her voracious lips before she could eat the whole thing.

"Now, now, my lovely," he told her, "You must do something for me  
first."

Rodmilla froze. She could not believe he would take advantage of her  
hunger like this, but she already knew she had an ultimatum: let du  
Roche have his way or starve. The latter would be the pure, honorable  
thing to do, she knew. But after tasting hunger, she did not crave it  
again. Not only that, but she had made an agreement with du Roche to  
behave like a wife is supposed to, and that included nighttime conjugal  
duties.

She complied with his wish only to receive the rest of the meal. The  
details of du Roche's activities were such that he had carefully  
restrained her to keep her screams from being heard all over the  
castle. There was some blood, but not enough to bestow the gift of  
death. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before, and something  
she hoped would not be repeated again. However, du Roche's taste for  
the bizarre and perverted made her realize that it was an impossible  
dream at best.

After she had satisfied both his hunger and her own, she lay awake in  
bed. Her eyes were still somewhat pink from the many tears shed during  
that interlude. She wondered what had happened to her that made her  
give in so willingly. She had struggled, naturally, but not as much as  
she could have and wanted to. She felt weak. Rodmilla curled herself  
into a cocoon and closed her eyes. She tried to forget the things that  
had happened to her. She felt hard, cold skin stroke her hair and the  
side of her face. She wanted to vomit on him, but she could not, for it  
would only make her hungry again, and she did not want to endure that  
episode once more. The touches were gentle, almost regretful, but  
Rodmilla lay frozen.

"Don't touch me," she said sharply. "Don't ever touch me again. Ever."

Rodmilla felt du Roche breath a short, quick pant, almost a smirk, onto  
her neck. She could hear him move to the other side of the bed, perhaps  
asleep. When she was sure he could not possibly be awake, she wrapped  
the covers about herself, curled into a ball, and wept until she fell  
asleep.


End file.
